


Forget Me Not

by direSin



Series: The Longest Distance [2]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Angst, Canon Divergence, Canon Era, F/M, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-04
Updated: 2020-10-09
Packaged: 2021-03-08 01:15:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,435
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26767120
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/direSin/pseuds/direSin
Summary: Invisible in the shadows, Geralt watched her, every movement and her smile. He still saw that smile in his dreams. She stepped outside and came to a stop. Light poured through the doorway behind her. Her fair skin glowed, framed in black. He wanted to touch it. Too far from her, he shivered and felt loss wash in, frothing around his feet.She wasn’t alone for long. The man was tall and lean, dressed in sober grays, his red-gold hair in an austere braid. He brought her a glass of wine.“Thank you, my lord Count,” she said, accepting it.His crisp bow hinted at a military bearing. “I am at my lady’s command.”“Command,” Yennefer said in her rich voice. “Command is for soldiers. I’ve no interest in it. If you would please me, you will discern what I wish and do it unasked.”
Relationships: Geralt/Yennefer
Series: The Longest Distance [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1906921
Comments: 29
Kudos: 36





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Set directly after the ending of _Season of Storms_ (not including the epilogue).
> 
> No part of the Netflix show has any bearing on this story and will ever have any bearing on anything I write in this fandom.

“Bad idea,” Dandelion said.

Geralt raised his head to glance over. They’d hardly spoken throughout the day, trading only a few brief words to agree on the route. He hadn’t been up to small talk after the encounter with the aguara. _Illusions are what you think about. What you fear. And what you dream of_ , she’d said - and morphed into Yennefer. Some reward. He’d have sooner taken an arrow to the gut.

“What are you on about?” he asked, frowning.

“You, thinking of going to her.” Dandelion shifted in the saddle, his mount sidling beneath him. “It’s a bad idea, my friend.”

Annoyed, Geralt squinted at him. “Are you a mind-reader too now?”

“Oh, please. I’ve seen that look on your face for a year and I know what it means.”

The witcher lowered his eyes. “I do owe her a thanks,” he muttered.

“And I bet gratitude toward Yennefer was on your mind all through the night. Damn if that Tiziana didn’t squeak like a - What?” Dandelion opened his eyes wide, bursting with innocence. “The inn had unfortunately thin walls.”

Geralt gave him a flat, unimpressed stare. “Surely you aren’t preaching abstinence at me? That’s all I need - from you, of all people.”

“I’m only saying I doubt your, ah, taking delight in her courier will endear you to Yennefer any. After you ditched her, at that. Can’t say I blame you, mind - ”

“How on earth would she find out?”

The bard’s eyebrows rose in disbelief. “You can’t be serious. Geralt, that wench was paid to deliver your swords on the sly, without telling you a thing, and what did she do? Clearly discretion isn’t of concern to her. Besides, you know how they all are; she’ll rub it into Yennefer’s face the first chance she gets. And she’s not much for forgiveness, that one. She’s as like to turn you into a pig as to speak with you.” Dandelion paused, a grin spreading across his face. “Do you know what? On second thought, by all means go to Vengerberg. The next time I see you should be immensely gratifying. I’ll say ‘I told you so’ and you’ll oink in return.” He threw back his head and laughed.

Geralt dug his heels into Roach’s flanks and the mare tossed her head, snorting her displeasure as she took off at a gallop. He slowed her down several hundred paces ahead, dismayed at the surge of anger Dandelion’s ribbing had provoked. Glancing down at his hands clenched on the reins he loosened his grip with a sigh. A gaggle of children ran past him, toward the row of tall pines at the edge of a village. Their voices quickly dissolved on the light summer breeze. In the dusk the surrounding woods were nearly dark, with an occasional patch of bright green where the sunlight still touched the treetops. Geralt watched the sun’s mellow descent until Dandelion caught up with him.

“Might as well stop for the night,” the bard said mildly.

“Might as well,” Geralt agreed.

The smell of food hit his nostrils long before they rode up to the tavern, reminding him that it’d been hours since his last meal. A spasm of hunger clutched at his stomach. He could hear raucous laughter and singing from the inside as he tethered Roach to the porch railing.

The door swung open and shut again and a burly figure shoved past him. Turning away from the sounds of piss striking dirt Geralt opened the door. Inside the air was heavy with wine fumes and the reek of unwashed bodies. A noisy bunch was gathered in one corner, clanking their mugs and belting out _The Lilies Proud_ , out of unison and out of tune.

“Well,” Dandelion summed up, wrinkling his nose, “at least we can be sure we’re in Temeria.”

Geralt moved one shoulder in a shrug. “Lilies, eagles, dolphins - it’s all the same to me.”

“How very cosmopolitan of you.”

They found an empty table and ordered food. Geralt set both swords on the bench beside him; he wasn’t about to leave the silver unattended after the recent ordeal. Their presence effectively assured that his thoughts kept going round in circles, the way they had been all day.

Why had she troubled herself for his sake? It would be a lie to say there was a blank slate between them. A gesture of goodwill was the last thing he’d have expected from her, given how they’d parted. Which had been her fault, dammit, even if he’d been the one to walk away. Had she thought he could give up being himself? Beg forgiveness for what he’d been made into? She had known from the start and he had tried to explain himself - and still it hadn’t been enough. He sure as hell didn’t miss the deadly silences and the withering glances and the barbs that, in the end, had somehow always managed to pink him in an unguarded spot.

The trouble was, he had other memories too. Memories of warm smiles, of her laughter, of the feather-soft touch of her hands on his face. Of her delight in the pleasure they’d given one another. He remembered clearly how he’d thought it would fade - the afterglow of amazing sex, what it had been like to wake up next to her every morning.

He contemplated that, tuning out the drunken shouting and Dandelion’s half-hearted attempts at a conversation, as he worked his way through his buckwheat kasha with a few bits of leathery beef.

He had been so sure It would fade in time.

He forced down the tide of aimless anger and chased it with the dregs of his ale. That was quite enough self-pity for one evening. The least he could do was be honest with himself.

From the moment he’d met her he had wanted her with a desperate intensity that terrified him. He had run, needing to put enough space between them so that she wouldn't notice she was becoming his world. He had run and he hadn’t stopped running ever since.

Geralt put his hands over his face and scrubbed at his eyes. He could feel Dandelion’s gaze on him.

“I’m going to get some rest,” the bard said, getting up. “The mood you’re in, I think you’re better off on your own.”

“Goodnight, then,” Geralt returned, hovering somewhere between chagrin and relief.

He stayed at the tavern and drank enough of the swill that the innkeeper passed off as vodka to get a warm buzz. It was close to midnight by the time he headed for the stairs, skirting a couple grappling in the doorway.

"Say, sweetheart, been lookin’ all night for a stiff prick." A woman leered at him through tumbled blond hair. “Got one ‘neath that leather?” She made to back him into the wall.

 _Fuck off_ was almost out of Geralt’s mouth before he swallowed it back down. He made a face, sidestepping her, and walked on.

Upstairs the room was small and unlit. There was no lock but the noise dropped down to a bearable level once he’d shut the door. He stripped quickly and got in the bed, aware of the light rustling and scratching in the corner. Mice. Could have been worse; could have been bedbugs. The floorboards in the hallway creaked. Two people, one stomping, the other shuffling. The innkeeper said something and a male voice replied to her. A door opened with a fretful squeak. Something thudded on the floor before the door slammed shut and the innkeeper trudged back down the hallway.

Geralt raised himself up and poked at the pillow in an attempt to make it softer. His cock bumped against his thigh, half-hard. He ignored it, letting the pressure build until the murky room swam under the moonlight.

_His fingers thread through the silk of her hair as she takes him into her mouth. She does it slowly, almost shaking off his hand when he tries to speed her up, holding on to his hip. She licks around the head in lazy circles; now and then her tongue flicks over his balls like a candle flame. When he makes an impatient sound she takes him in inch by inch, agonizingly slow, watching him from under the dark eyelashes that veil the violet of her eyes..._

His breath stuttered, his cock full and heavy in his hand. He worked it steadily until he choked on gasps and broken words, strung out with the tension thrumming through him, a full-body shiver rippling over his skin.

_She sucks until his thighs quiver as he arches, holding her head, never forcing, only guiding himself down her throat. She cups his balls, rolling them in their sack, and he growls, head thrown back..._

The illusion didn’t last. He could never hang on to it after he’d gone boneless, finished - as desperately as he wrapped his arms around her or dug his fingers in, his hands opened and closed on nothing. He sighed, pulling the threadbare blanket over his head. For a time he tossed and turned, muscles slowly relaxing, the aftermath of an orgasm turning fevered want into bitter longing flavored with regret.

It was bad enough to know that he was tangled up in her in ways he couldn't undo. It was worse knowing she still felt something for him. She must; there was no other reason for her to be making a considerable effort on his behalf. But she hadn’t wanted him to find out. Not that he could blame her, after he’d thrown what they'd had in her face.

The patch of sky in the tiny window was subtly turning from black to grey. Almost daybreak. Geralt got up and went to the window, pushing the shutters wide open. The air smelled of grass and damp wood. He rested his hands on the wet windowsill. In the pre-dawn haze his eyes could just make out the clumps of the trees, the outlines of the houses and the stables.

A gust of wind sprayed his face and arms with a thin mist of cold droplets but the rain was already tapering off. He wiped his face and went to get dressed.


	2. Chapter 2

He clung to the edge of the street, exasperated by the noise and bustle of the city. Above him a woman leaned over a balustrade and emptied a chamberpot onto the cobblestones. Its contents splashed at his feet. Geralt hopped back, narrowly missing the foul puddle. A man in a cassock turned inside-out, his tights rucked and twisted, rushed out of an unmarked establishment and almost tripped over him. The man cursed, caught sight of the sword-hilt protruding over Geralt’s shoulder and hurried off.

Around the next corner a small square opened, pleasantly shaded with trees. Geralt paused at the sweet-seller’s stall. He hadn’t eaten since morning and at the sight and smell of food his stomach reminded him of it. He bought an almond-crusted pastry and took a bite. He’d spent most of the day at the marketplace and the better part of two hours in a bathhouse, anxious, tense and annoyed with himself. He’d been stalling and he knew it but at least he was clean and dressed in fresh clothes to show for it. He rolled his shoulders, sighing, and walked on.

The narrow winding streets slowly gave way to broad, gracious avenues lined with trees and gated manses. Wrought of grey stone quarried from the mountains to the west, the castle came into view. It sat above the city, at the crest of a hill, the estates of the rich and the well-born sprawling below. The sun slanted low and orange, its rays picking out the arrow of the weathervane atop the central spire, setting it ablaze with gold.

Twilight was falling by the time Geralt neared the elegant manor-house hidden away in the shadows of the castle. It took him aback to see the long table set with silver and white linen through the open windows, the trays laid with roasts and cheeses and crisp green sallets. Men and women ate and chattered, lifting wineglasses. Plates and silver clinked, gleaming by candlelight.

She had guests. He had not anticipated that. Thrown off his stride, he lingered in the street until a carriage went past at a good clip and the coachman cast him a wondering glance. Geralt shook himself and entered through the side gate, passing into the gardened inner courtyard.

He’d spent many hours here, moving through the training-forms drilled into him since he was six. She had often watched him, seated on the bench under the hawthorn tree. He’d thought the novelty would pale quickly for her but her fascination had endured.

“Does it not bore you?” he’d asked her once.

“No,” she’d said. “I like looking at beautiful things.” Her voice had smoldered like peat fire. He’d put the sword down and reached for her. She’d run the tip of one finger over his lower lip; the languorous sweep of her lashes had almost hidden the violet of her eyes. The hawthorn had been in bloom, petals strewn on the loam.

The berries it bore now were turning red. Geralt passed his hands over his face. They were quicksand, those memories, so he’d take care to stay on safer ground. He leaned back against the railing behind the tree and folded his arms across his chest, settling to wait.

The warm breeze ruffled his hair, the fragrance of flowers heady in the summer night as the soft twilight faded and the stars kindled in the black sky. The arched doors leading to the courtyard had been thrown open to let the fresh air in and he could see into the hallway and the parlor beyond. A steady stream of servants came and went, pouring wine, carrying away the empty platters and trays. Somewhere out of sight musicians played. Several couples had risen to dance the pavane, others joining them for the lively mazurka that followed.

A laugh rang out like a bell, sending a jolt through him. He knew that sound better than he knew his own name. Yen was laughing. His pulse racing, Geralt fought to remain still.

He saw her. She glided smoothly across the floor and a murmur followed as faces turned in her direction. It was no wonder her passing caused a stir - among the others, flounced and layered in swathes of fabric, awkward under the weight of their attire, she stood out like a dark flame. She was in densest black, the bodice of her gown tight to her torso, the skirts fitted close to the hips and falling in immaculate folds to sweep the floor. Her abundant curls spilled loose over bare shoulders. On its black velvet ribbon the diamond star flashed at her throat, glittering through an array of colors. Her twilight eyes were amused.

Invisible in the shadows, Geralt watched her, every movement and her smile. He still saw that smile in his dreams. She stepped outside and came to a stop. Light poured through the doorway behind her. Her fair skin glowed, framed in black. He wanted to touch it. Too far from her, he shivered and felt loss wash in, frothing around his feet.

She wasn’t alone for long. The man was tall and lean, dressed in sober grays, his red-gold hair in an austere braid. He brought her a glass of wine.

“Thank you, my lord Count,” she said, accepting it.

His crisp bow hinted at a military bearing. “I am at my lady’s command.”

“Command,” Yennefer said in her rich voice. “Command is for soldiers. I’ve no interest in it. If you would please me, you will discern what I wish and do it unasked.”

The man was smiling, all predatory white teeth, as his eyes moved slowly over her. Her body shifted toward his when he leaned down to murmur in her ear.

"Surprise me," she told him. Geralt could feel her interest catch.

She set the glass down on the parapet with absent grace. The man stooped to put his arms around her, his large hand pressing against the small of her back. Geralt felt his mouth go dry. He should turn around and leave, for his own sanity if not for decency's sake. Just seeing her hurt enough.

They kissed. He stood, frozen and dumb, watching them. When the kiss ended Yennefer was gasping, supporting herself with a hand on the man’s arm. He held her up.

Geralt wanted to snarl. He might have, if not for the dizzying sensation of the world coming apart around him and the broken pieces floating away. The rational part of him understood. He’d left her; she’d moved on. He couldn’t fault her. He should be relieved to see her happy and relaxed, not steeped in misery - and godsdammit, he knew that. But he resented her all the same. It sizzled inside him.

“Don’t make me wait too long,” the man said in a sure tone that had Geralt gnashing his teeth. He stalked away. Geralt stared after him.

He must have moved because Yennefer suddenly glanced over to where he stood. He saw her grow still, her gaze sharpening. Desire surged, sloshing through the jealousy. He stepped toward her.

Something bright flared in her eyes. For a minute she gave no other sign but stood unmoving as the two of them looked at each other. “Geralt,” she said at last. There was a world of meaning in that one simple word, his name - all of the complex knots of want and resentment, hurt and need that lay between them - cutting to his soul and dismissing everything else as incidental, tinged with the faint amusement only Yennefer could give it. She huffed a fragment of a laugh and looked away. “What a pleasant surprise,” she murmured, staring off to the distance. “I meant to send you an invitation but, you see, you’d forgotten to leave me your address.”

Geralt made no answer.

“Still, I am thrilled you could make it,” she went on. “I trust you found your swords in order. You’re welcome.” Violet gaze returned to rest on him. “For the little slut, too. I do hope she was to your liking.”

A wave of hollow laughter bubbled up, caught in his throat and left him choking. Dandelion had been right after all. She regarded him coolly. So close, so beautiful. So dangerous. Geralt closed his eyes to shut out the sight of her but he could still feel the heat of her presence, her scent. Her nearness was dizzying. Nothing had changed. “She wasn’t you,” he said.

“Isn’t that romantic. And you almost sounded as though you meant it.” By the sweeping sound of her skirt he could tell she’d moved. Her scent surrounded him, her body devastatingly near. He stood rooted as she lay a hand against his cheek. “Pity it makes no earthly difference to me.” Her lips brushed his and withdrew, her hand falling away.

Want, so sharp it was like pain, made breathing a struggle. Geralt blinked as her face swam into focus, serene and beautiful. She was turning away. “Yen?” he called after her.

She looked back, her eyes gone cold, and gave him a cutting smile. “What could you possibly have to say?” she asked with amused contempt.

He felt curiously light-headed, his heart beating too quick. The truth was that she was right. Even if he could say something, what was the point? He might have once, through some miracle, been something she wanted - but he would never be anything she needed.

He loathed that, against all logic; he felt his jaw go taut with it. Caught in the grip of it, he couldn’t think for the clamor in his head, the sound of blood pounding in his ears. He stepped in close, took her face in his hands to hold her still and kissed her.

She gave a soft broken sound. Her mouth opened to let him in with gratifying eagerness and it was sweet, sweeter than he remembered. It felt like coming home. Her tongue met his; the shock of it went through him and a shiver ran the length of his spine. It had been a while since he kissed like this. Ever since he’d left her all he’d done was fuck with desperation, as if by fucking he could tire himself out enough to miss how truly lonely he’d been. He’d known he was lonely - it went without saying. But it wasn’t until this moment, pressing up against each other, mouths melting together, that the full force of it hit him like a fist to the face.

He broke away and bent his head against her neck. Gods, if this was what one kiss was like, he wasn’t going to come out of this whole. She took a step back. Her face reeled in his sight, a faint smile curving her lips. She knew; how could she not?

She made the familiar complex gesture and whispered a word, opening a portal. She met his gaze without speaking before she stepped through it. Geralt watched her go, taking every bit of color with her. It only took him a moment to suck in a shaky breath and follow.

The room was dimly lit by a single lamp. He had no idea where he was. It didn’t matter - her gown was on the floor, folds of black silk pooled around her feet, leaving her bare but for her choker and her heels. He stood, transfixed by the expanse of smooth pale skin, until she reached for him. He propped his sword against the bedside table and sank down on the bed to remove his boots, rising when he was done. She slid her hands under the hem of his shirt and pulled it up; when it was over his face she leaned in and nipped at his throat. He made an inarticulate sound, trying to keep still, and she laughed. Her palms glided along his ribs to his stomach and she remembered all the sensitive places.

“You’re wicked,” he rasped, muffled by the shirt.

“You knew that already.” She was undoing his laces, fingertips skimming his cock trapped beneath. “Would you have me stop?”

Geralt grabbed the shirt off himself and threw it on the floor. “Gods no.” _Please don’t. Don’t ever stop._

Yennefer laughed again and drew his breeches down slowly, dragging her nails over the skin of his hips and thighs. While he shuddered, barely managing to stand, she untied the thong that held his hair back. It fell loose around his face and she twined her hand in it, jerked her grip tight and kissed him. He groaned into her mouth. She released him and he staggered in her sudden absence.

She had bitten his lip and he touched it with his tongue. She smiled darkly, eyes glittering in a pleased sort of way. His hands closed about her waist, drawing her hard against him. Her hair slid over his bare skin as his mouth came down on hers. Her scent made his head spin. He kissed her as a starving man eats, his tongue parting her lips, one hand sliding down her leg until he could hook it over his hip. Her heel gouged the back of his thigh but she was kissing him back and not even the length of her body pressed against his was enough. He wanted there not to be a space between them. He wanted to be so deep in her that he couldn’t feel where he ended and she began.

He raised his head, breathing hard. She stepped out of her slippers. For a second, after they fell onto the bed, he had her under him but she narrowed her eyes at him and he let her push him down flat. She straddled him, up on her knees, and pinned his wrists above his head, warning him with a look to keep them there. He opened his mouth and she put her finger to his lips. He held his breath as she took him in and eased all the way down, drawing this moment in his mind, to remember forever: the dark cloud of her hair, the curves of her body, the heat of her that went all through him.

He shifted under her when she moved. He had no illusions of being in control but he couldn’t keep his hands off her; his fingers tightened on her hips. She took one hand to guide it down. He stroked her as she rose and fell over him, her back arching in a perfect curve that pushed her breasts up and her hips down. She was tight around him, tight and hot and slick as she rocked against him, caught up in her pleasure. Geralt clenched his teeth, trying to hold out against her, but she leaned forward and bit down on his shoulder. Her muscles clutched at him and she reached back to press her fingertips under his balls, and he gasped her name and jerked into her with a breathless cry.

For a time it was all he could do to pant and stare at the ceiling. She climbed off him and he kissed her temple and lay quietly, gazing at her face, far-off and distant, impossibly beautiful. He had too much to say and no words to say it. He buried his face in her neck and held onto her. Her body tensed at once. She slid out of his arms. He reached for her but his hand froze, lingering a finger's breadth from her shoulder until he pulled it back. He swallowed the hard lump in his throat and closed his eyes. _Don’t let me sleep_ , he thought, only to drift away moments later.

When the sun rose, dawn breaking grey in the east, she was long gone. He sat up in a tangle of bed linens. He recognized the room now, appointed with woven tapestries of abstract designs; it was her country estate, rustic but well-kept, some few hours’ ride south of Vengerberg. He supposed he should be grateful for that. She might have taken him halfway across the continent to make a point. There was a deep streak of ruthlessness in her - and yet he didn’t want to be without her.

Not that it mattered. She had taken pains to make that clear. Geralt smiled without a trace of humor, turning his head to look at the spray of forget-me-nots on the pillow beside him, violet as her eyes.


End file.
